


Serpentine

by nantdisglair



Category: Onmyouji | The Yin-Yang Master (Movies)
Genre: Case Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-09
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-09 09:40:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27468874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nantdisglair/pseuds/nantdisglair
Summary: When Hiromasa insists on visiting a distant cousin in the province of Hitachi, he and Seimei uncover a tangled nest of trouble...
Relationships: Abe no Seimei/Minamoto no Hiromasa
Comments: 2
Kudos: 22





	Serpentine

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Spook Me 2019; the prompt was ‘snake’.

The track from the shrine was pockmarked with loose stones. Their horses, sleek and well-fed from weeks of good stabling, pecked and snorted in complaint. The air thrummed with the sound of insects, and the early morning haze that habitually lay across the lake had started to lift, giving glimpses of blue-green water ringed with a reedy marshland. On the breeze came the briny tang of salt, bringing freshness to the day.

“Well, Seimei. Here we are, on the road again.”

Hiromasa imbued his words with all the buoyancy he could manage, given the lack of sleep and somewhat bizarre happenings of the last few weeks. If he’d known in advance that the request from the abbot of the Katori shrine would have led to such trouble, he’d have burned the letter.

Not that it was good form to burn letters addressed to other people. Really, he shouldn’t have even read the letter, since it was addressed to Seimei. But Seimei rarely bothered with correspondence, and on the afternoon Hiromasa had come calling, it was looking all untidy, lying there in a heap. And, well, Seimei had been busy doing something magical in the garden, and Hiromasa was bored—there are only so many grilled sardines a man can eat—so naturally he’d taken it into his head to play the secretary and bring some order to the jumble of Seimei’s unopened letters.

Yes, if he’d known such an act of kindness would lead to months of travelling through the wilderness, he’d have sat on his hands. Or eaten another sardine. Instead, he’d read the anguished cry for help from the elderly reverend abbot and, touched with compassion, had immediately flung himself into the tangle of weeds and out-of-season blooms in search of Seimei.

His actions, and his persuasive eloquence, had convinced Seimei to undertake the arduous journey to Shimosa province, a place far to the east. What waited for them at Katori was a creature of great spite and cunning. Fortunately Seimei had been equal to the task, and Hiromasa flattered himself that his own role in defeating the demon had been just as impressive. The Katori shrine was, after all, known for its links to swordsmanship, and Hiromasa had some small skill in the art.

His heart swelled at the reminder. The smile he turned on Seimei was genuine. “The abbot was still singing your praises when we left. If his letter of recommendation finds favour with Their Excellencies of the Right and Left, His Majesty will surely elevate you to senior fifth rank!”

Seimei hummed a sigh. “I hope not. It would be very inconvenient.”

Hiromasa was about to argue as to the merits of achieving higher rank, then realised he’d be wasting his time. Seimei was no more interested in advancement at court as he, Hiromasa, was interested in stargazing. Although sometimes he did quite like looking at the stars, when Seimei was curled up beside him beneath the warmth of their discarded robes…

“What would be inconvenient,” Hiromasa said, hushing his wayward thoughts, “is to travel all the way back to the capital at this juncture. The weather is too warm to spend much time on horseback. Surely it is better to wait until the temperatures are a little cooler.”

He slanted a glance at his companion, trying to judge from Seimei’s perfectly still countenance whether or not his petition was working.

“The Eighth Month has only just begun,” he continued. “Would it not be pleasant to spend some time in congenial surroundings, with good company, just for a few weeks? Wouldn’t it be lovely to watch the moon reflected in the waters of Lake Kasumigaura during the Mid-Autumn Festival? Then we can start the long journey home, refreshed in body and spirit.”

Seimei arched his eyebrows, the suggestion of a smile curving his mouth. “Is this supposed to appeal to my practical side or my romantic side?”

“Practical, of course. You don’t have a romantic side.”

A soft snort greeted this pronouncement. “Indeed I do, Hiromasa. It is kept well-hidden, lest it be used against me by unscrupulous agents.”

Hiromasa opened his eyes wide. “Do you think I am an unscrupulous agent?”

“No.” Seimei’s mirth was silent, his shoulders shaking. When he looked up, his eyes were bright, laughter fading into seriousness. “I think you are a very good man.”

“Well.” Mollified, Hiromasa pressed on. “A very good man has very good ideas, does he not? Therefore, I wish to present to you a plan that I think will benefit us both…”

“You want to go to Fuchu and call on your cousin, Sakamoto no Kanesuke.”

Surprise made Hiromasa jerk on the reins. His horse took offence and danced about. By the time he’d calmed the animal, Seimei had rode on ahead, the train of his hunting costume a dazzling white against the dark bay of his mount.

Hiromasa cantered after him. “How did you know?”

Seimei tipped his head, trailing an indulgent smile. “How did I know that the Governor of Hitachi is your distant cousin? And it is a distant connection, isn’t it? Through your mother, I believe. Really, I’m not sure that there’s a term for the link between you and Lord Kanesuke, but blood is blood…”

“Seimei!”

His eyebrows arched again. “Ah, yes. How did I know? My dear Hiromasa, you talk in your sleep.”

“You could have said something.”

“I did, at the time. But you were asleep; I doubt you heard me.”

Curiosity outweighed the embarrassment. “What did you say?”

Seimei gave him a look. “Perhaps you will hear me next time. In any event, I happen to agree with you. It would be pleasant to spend some time in… what did you call it? Congenial surroundings?”

“I hope it’s congenial.” Hiromasa frowned, guiding his horse from the track onto the road. The smell of saltwater grew stronger as they joined the road that ran along the eastern side of the lake. “The governor’s residence is likely to be comfortable, at least. Even this far from civilisation.”

Seimei made a noncommittal sound.

“Anyway, I’m glad you agreed to my proposal,” Hiromasa continued, brightening. “I took the liberty of writing to my cousin yesterday, informing him of our imminent arrival.”

Another smile twitched at Seimei’s lips. “You are certain of me, aren’t you?”

“Of you, no. Of my ability to convince you, yes.” Hiromasa offered a smile of his own.

Seimei’s laughter rang out. “Very well, then. Fuchu is an easy day’s ride; we should be with your cousin by mid-afternoon.”

“Thank you, Seimei.” Hiromasa beamed. “I haven’t seen Kanesuke in… oh, it must be years. He is older than me, of course, and has the considerations of his post to occupy his time. We correspond every now and then, but the last time we saw one another, it must have been… yes, it was before the court appointments, twelve, fifteen years ago. How time has flown!”

“For Lord Kanesuke, too,” Seimei said drily. “Fifteen years as the governor of Hitachi. He must feel forgotten.”

“Oh no, he enjoys being away from the capital. My cousin was born and raised in Suma, so no doubt he is accustomed to dealing with the rigours of country life. Besides,” Hiromasa added, suddenly remembering with clarity the days of his youth, “Kanesuke’s wife, Lady Aiko, is from Hitachi. When she first came to the capital, everyone laughed at her awkward manners. You know what people are like, forever mocking the different or unusual.

“But Lady Aiko would not be cowed,” he recalled. “She wore her provincial breeding like a robe of finest silk and faced her harshest critics with a pure smile. My mother took her under her wing, and soon Aiko was setting the fashions at court. I remember she would wear her hairpins at peculiar angles, and all the ladies copied her. She would laugh about it when she visited us, exclaiming how silly and superficial life was in the capital. She said that real life happened in the provinces and told me of her home, how the land and the hills and the lake—this lake,” he gestured towards the brackish water lapping at the muddy shore, “were more important and real than anything to be found in the capital.”

“She sounds formidable,” Seimei said. “I admire her already.”

Hiromasa nodded, still caught up in memories. “Aiko is not pretty, but her features have an arresting quality. She’s not a woman to be ignored.”

“You’re fond of her.”

“Oh, yes.” Reminiscence broadened his smile. “She treated me as an older sister would a younger brother. As an only child, I liked her for it. And I liked their son. Takamune is his name. We would kick a fabric ball around the garden for hours on end, and I would give him piggybacks and charge beneath the willow trees, and he’d shriek with laughter…”

With a happy sigh, Hiromasa shook free of the memory. “Aiko and Kanesuke have another son, too—Naritoki. He was born in Hitachi, so I have never met him. But I will today.”

“Mm. And while you reacquaint yourself with your distant family, I will visit Mount Tsukuba.” Seimei nodded towards the double-peaked mountain on the far side of the lake. In this light, through the melting haze, it loomed purple-grey, towering over the oak and pine-clad hills. “The shrine has certain books that may prove to be of interest.”

Hiromasa shaded his eyes and gazed across the glimmering water. “We could make an excursion of it.”

“Perhaps.” Seimei’s lips curled at the corners. “Those who climb the double peaks of Tsukuba are said to be searching for a good marriage. It’s said…”

His voice tailed off. Hiromasa glanced over, frowning when he saw Seimei sit erect in the saddle, his head lifted and his eyes narrowed.

“What is it?” Hiromasa nudged his horse closer and followed the direction of Seimei’s gaze.

A track broke free of the road, leading away from the lakeside to a settlement further up the slope. Rice fields stretched down from the boundary. A heron picked its way through muddy terraces. Oak trees partially screened the town, which looked small but prosperous.

“The town of Namegata,” Seimei said, more to himself than to Hiromasa. He sat a little straighter and sniffed the air.

Uneasy, Hiromasa strained his eyes to see what might be amiss, but could spot nothing out of the ordinary. “Seimei, what’s wrong?”

“Something,” Seimei said, his tone distracted. His brows furrowed. “Nothing.”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

A perturbed expression crossed Seimei’s face. He tilted his head as if listening to a faint sound, then shook it away. “It’s gone now.”

“What has?” Hiromasa asked, but Seimei was unable to provide an answer.

*

Their arrival at the governor’s residence caused a stir. It was obvious, as they approached, that the house was a place of mourning. Hiromasa uttered a cry of distress and urged on his horse. He leaped off and banged on the closed gates of the compound with the hilt of his sword before running over to the bell and ringing it.

His cousin couldn’t be dead! Kanesuke was older than him, yes, but not _that_ old. He hadn’t noticed any signs of sickness among the people of Fuchu. Indeed, the town appeared to be thriving, with a market and shops all doing a lively trade. What, then, had happened here?

Seimei dismounted and led his horse the last few steps to the gate. He made an interrogatory noise and plucked a narrow sheet of paper from where it had been pinned. Briefly he showed it to Hiromasa. A series of arcane symbols had been inked onto the paper in a slapdash hand.

“Magic?”

“Protective wards.” Seimei bent his head and touched the paper to his lips, murmuring over it. “That’s better.” He stuck it back where he’d found it, then raised his eyebrows. “Ah. Someone is coming.”

Hiromasa slid his sword back into its scabbard and stood aside, his heart racing. Anxiety tightened his throat. It would be poor manners indeed to intrude upon a household in mourning. The best thing would be to offer their condolences and then be on their way. But this was his cousin’s family. He was surely touched by the taboo of death through their blood connection, which made travel impossible. Maybe Seimei…

His hurried thoughts came to a stop when the gate opened. A servant looked out, weary-eyed and with sloping shoulders. His hair was unkempt, greying at the temples, and his moustache drooped.

“The apologies of the household, honourable lords, but—”

“I am Minamoto no Hiromasa, cousin to Sakamoto no Kanesuke.” Hiromasa barrelled into the courtyard, leaving the retainer gaping after him. “Where is the Governor? Who has died here? Conduct us to Lord Kanesuke or Lady Aiko at once!”

The servant started bowing, a ridiculous sight under those circumstances. “My lord, I regret that it is the master’s youngest son who has passed into the blessed realms.”

“Naritoki?” A deep sadness overwhelmed Hiromasa. He might have dozens upon dozens of cousins, but he cared about every one. Even the ones he hadn’t met. To his mind, family was a blessing; each member of his extended family tree was a potential friend, mentor, or protégé.

“When did he die?” Seimei asked. “And how?”

Hesitation showed on the servant’s face. He looked from Seimei to Hiromasa and back again, clearly wondering at their relationship. The man had every reason for his confusion: Seimei was holding the reins of both horses, and was dressed in his usual informal style—pale blue figured silk beneath the immaculate white of his hunting costume. A few strands of hair had worked loose from his topknot and lay curled against his neck, a most distracting sight.

Hiromasa tried to maintain certain standards while travelling. His outfit would be considered simple by his acquaintances at court, but the cloth was of the finest and the colours and patterns were layered with the very best taste. The difference between himself and Seimei was marked; little wonder the retainer took them for master and servant.

To disabuse the man of any misconceptions, Hiromasa waved a hand. “This is my companion, Abe no Seimei.”

The servant hid his reaction in another bow. “To answer your question, Lord Seimei, to our great sorrow, Naritoki was taken by a pestilence thirty-one days ago.”

“Pestilence?” Astonishment had Hiromasa blinking around at the governor’s residence. It was of a generous size, and seemed to be modelled on the imperial palace, with a white-gravelled courtyard flanked by long halls. Maids swept the verandas or polished the wooden floors; a man in homespun clothing tended the cherry trees planted in a small garden of wildflowers springing from rocks. Other servants went about their duties. All seemed sombre, as one would expect in a place of grief, but there was none of the frantic, exhausted terror that accompanied an outbreak of plague.

The capital had been rocked by plague on several occasions. During the last outbreak six years ago, Hiromasa had lost two uncles and an aunt, as well as several friends. No respecter of social class, the pestilence had also carried off an imperial princess, and the Minister of the Left had lain sick for weeks before making a slow, painful recovery.

There was no sign of plague here. No quarantine, no fires burning infested clothing, no priests chanting. Hiromasa turned to Seimei. “Pestilence?”

Seimei shook his head slowly, thoughtfully.

The servant clucked, bowing again. “Far be it for me to correct such noble lords, but it was indeed a pestilence that took young master Naritoki. The symptoms were unmistakeable—fever, sweating, unquenchable thirst, then dark patches on the skin, like bruises, followed by pustules that broke open and wept black blood…”

Horror made Hiromasa flinch back. “How awful! Seimei, do you recognise this form of plague?”

“No.” His companion wore an inward-looking expression. “But it sounds very interesting.”

“Interesting!” Hiromasa gave him an outraged stare, one that the servant copied. “How can you say something like that when my poor young cousin lies dead!”

“Not just your cousin.” A woman’s voice rang out, clear as a temple bell.

They turned to see a figure swaddled in mourning clothes, a veil pinned to her hair sweeping low to cover most of her face. Through the gauze, dark eyes flashed. The length of her lustrous black hair trailed onto the train of her gown. A closed fan dangled from her wrist. The scent of aloes accompanied her, a warm, sweet fragrance.

Hiromasa recognised the scent. He stepped forward, eager gaze searching the features blurred by the veil. “Lady Aiko!”

She gave him a tired smile. “Hiromasa.” She stretched out her hands in welcome. “You are a long way from home.”

“Did you receive my letter?”

“Yes.” She clasped his fingers briefly then let go. “I regret we did not send a reply soon enough to warn you of the disaster that has befallen us.” Her gaze fixed on him. “You see, my lord, it is not just Naritoki for whom we mourn, but also my husband. He is gravely ill. The doctors have said they can do nothing. Priests are useless. The odour of death hangs over him.”

Her eyes glittered, her mouth twisting as she turned away, her shoulders tense. “You have come in time to see him die. How cruel life is!”

Awkward words of comfort sprang to Hiromasa’s lips, but before he could utter any of them, Seimei relinquished the horses and strolled towards them. He stopped in front of Aiko, looked her over from head to toe, then leaned forward and plucked something from within the folds of her robes.

Her gasp of shock was echoed by Hiromasa. The servant shuffled to his mistress’s defence, rolling up his sleeves and trying to look menacing.

“Hiromasa! Who is this—this…” Aiko put a hand to her head as if faint. Her robes fluttered like the wings of butterflies.

“Ah, this is Abe no Seimei, of the Bureau of Divination.” He sent a furious glare in Seimei’s direction. “My friend.”

“Abe no Seimei? The onmyouji?” A shudder seemed to go through her, and she took an involuntary step back. Tongues of paper wagged and amulets clashed. It was only now that Hiromasa realised that dozens of charms had been sewn into her gown. He recognised the brushwork—it was the same as on the charm pinned to the gate.

“I have some small skill.” Seimei examined the paper charm he’d taken from her gown. “Very interesting. Where did you get this?”

Aiko flicked open her fan and flapped it a few times, as if the breeze it generated would carry Seimei and his impertinent questions away. The fine Korean paper of the fan was decorated not with landscapes or a poem, but by more charms in a thick, blocky script that looked like a child’s idea of a spell.

“My spiritual adviser provided them at my request, as protection against the misfortune dogging our house,” she said haughtily. “His name is Genzo. His home is on the slopes of Mount Tsukuba. He is very holy.”

“Mm.” Seimei’s eyes gleamed. He handed back the charm he’d taken, a zigzag scrap of paper with faint brushstrokes upon it. “And yet the wards are open to the north and south of your house. Allow me to seal them properly, as I’m sure your holy man intended to do…”

Lady Aiko drew herself up, annoyance crackling the air. “Very well. But—”

She broke off and stared across the courtyard. A young man emerged from the west wing, his jaunty step at odds with the pall of sadness that hung over the household. Dressed in fine robes of russet and dark green, he was handsome, if a little pallid. Catching sight of the visitors, he checked his pace, then recognition flowed across his features and he hurried closer.

“Minamoto no Hiromasa! I can’t believe it! What brings you to Fuchu? What news from the capital? It’s wonderful to see you again after all this time!”

“Takamune.” Hiromasa clasped his hands, warmed by his young relative’s enthusiasm—although it seemed rather insensitive, given the circumstances. “Lord Seimei and I were staying at the Katori shrine and decided to pay a visit. But alas, my timing is ill-judged. Your esteemed mother has just been telling us of the sad events that have overtaken your family. Please accept our condolences on the loss of your brother.” He patted Takamune’s arm in sympathy. “And now your father, my dear cousin, is ill. Although… perhaps Seimei could examine him.”

Lady Aiko made a derogatory sound. “Does he have some small skill with medicine, too?”

Seimei’s mouth twitched. “A little, yes.”

Her jaw tightened. Turning her head away, she faced her son. “Where have you been?” Her tone was light, but the anger beneath it was audible to all.

Takamune grinned. “Consoling Masako.” He seemed inordinately proud of this, almost flaunting his good deed in his mother’s face. Remembering his guests, he added, “She was very fond of my younger brother. His death has affected her greatly. And in her condition…”

“Yes,” Aiko hissed, “let’s not forget about her _condition_.”

Hiromasa looked between mother and son. He had never heard of the lady, and clearly the situation was a delicate one. He would have to tread with care. “Is the young lady also ill?”

A harsh laugh from Aiko. “The slut is pregnant. Carrying my lord’s child… or so she claims.”

Takamune rounded on her, fists clenched and his expression dark. “Mother, you are overwrought. You should return to your quarters and rest.”

They faced one another, neither backing down. Takamune’s anger was plain to see, but it was Aiko who held Hiromasa’s attention, standing tall and stately, rage boiling around her in silence.

Then it seemed as if she collapsed. Her shoulders dropped, her spine loosened, and she spun on her heel. The train of her robes flashed, a vivid red under-gown beneath the layers of mourning white, and she shook out her long hair so it swung with a shimmering, hypnotic sway. She snapped shut her fan and glided away, her footsteps so delicate upon the gravel it was as if she walked on air.

“Cousin Hiromasa, Lord Seimei, do forgive our plain speech.” Takamune turned an uneasy smile on them, forcing his laughter. “I’m afraid our long years away from the capital have turned us into bumpkins. We speak as we find, with none of the poetic niceties you’re used to.”

“That’s quite all right,” Hiromasa assured him, though the scene between mother and son had upset him more than he cared to admit. Where had that carefree, affectionate child gone? And the elegant, educated young wife who knew her own worth? Surely fifteen years in the provinces had not had so great and deleterious an effect!

Takamune was still talking, explaining: “You must forgive my mother. Things have changed for her this last year or so. The tour Father took of the province has enriched us beyond all measure,” he made a gesture that encompassed the buildings within the walled compound, “but it also brought her great personal sorrow. Masako…”

He paused, a dreamy look in his eyes. His attention wandered towards the west wing, to the room where, presumably, Miss Masako resided.

Seimei spoke up. “What of the young woman?”

Takamune gave a start. A blush coloured his cheeks. “Ah, Masako is Father’s concubine. A pretty little thing from some nameless fishing village on the coast. She is…” his blush deepened, his tongue moistened his lips, “she is very nice. Modest and neat in her dress. Quiet and respectable. A nice girl,” he finished, lamely.

Eyebrows raised, Seimei looked at Hiromasa.

“And she will soon be a mother.” Hiromasa found a smile from somewhere. “A happy occasion amidst the sorrow. Congratulations.”

“Yes. A happy occasion.” Takamune did not look happy. If anything, his forced cheer vanished and a morose expression seized him. He stirred himself to action. “But how rude I am, keeping you standing around in the afternoon sun! Ogai,” he addressed the servant, who’d ventured a short distance away, “take the horses and see them stabled. Jubei,” this to the man tending the plants, “show my cousin and his companion to the guest quarters. See to it that they have all that they require.”

He clasped Hiromasa’s hand again. “Our home is your home. Please be comfortable. I will see you both for the evening meal.” Another smile, this one seeming more natural, and he was gone.

The servants took their bags from the horses. Laden down, Jubei grunted something and trudged towards the buildings tucked behind the east wing. Hiromasa and Seimei followed.

Glazed green tiles on the roof and beautifully-painted folding screens lent a touch of luxury to the rooms. The floors were freshly polished, and the scent of sandalwood and pine drifted through the space. Jubei set their bags down and wandered off; a maid bustled in and began to unpack for them.

Hiromasa strolled around their quarters, pleased with what he saw. Not quite up to the standards of the capital, but furnished very prettily. They would be quite comfortable here, and as the room was joined to the main house by a walkway, they were guaranteed some privacy.

“This is very fine,” he said, making a circuit of the veranda and drawing down a green bamboo blind to shut out the glare of the sun. “We’ll be snug here together, Seimei. Yes, this is very fine indeed.”

“Mm.” Seimei stood in the middle of the room, half in the shade, half in sunlight. His expression was blank.

“You don’t think it’s fine?” Hiromasa lowered his voice, glancing after the departing maid.

“The accommodation is more than adequate.” Seimei rolled up his sleeve and flicked his fingers towards a corner, sending a shower of barely visible sparks through the air. “The rest of the house, though… Something’s wrong.”

Hiromasa sighed. “So the local holy man isn’t as good as you. But then, who is?”

“Not that.” Seimei tipped his head as if trying to listen to some distant sound. A frown briefly pulled his brows together. “There’s something else,” he said, voice slow and rich and deep. “Something… twisted.”

*

The maid returned with water and drying cloths. Hiromasa took the opportunity to freshen up, but despite the inviting softness of a sleeping mat rolled out in the shade of the blinds, he felt too restless to nap. When Seimei took ink, brushes and paper from his seemingly bottomless pack and announced that he was going to work on protecting the house properly, Hiromasa gave up on expecting anything more intimate.

It would have been the height of bad taste for them to be overly affectionate, anyway. This was a house in mourning, after all.

Leaving Seimei curled up cross-legged on the veranda murmuring spells in that sleepy, purring tone Hiromasa so enjoyed under other circumstances, he strolled along the walkway to the main house. The servants had moved elsewhere about their business, and with the blinds down and screens drawn, Hiromasa navigated his way around with caution.

He stepped into one corridor to feel the brush of hundreds of long paper charms over his cap. Another room held nothing but a brazier; a cone of incense was slowly burning, the odour pungent and on the verge of unpleasant. A doorway led to a portico hung with dangling, jingling silver bells on delicate threads. The music it created as the breeze wafted through should have been relaxing, but felt instead sinister.

Hiromasa resisted the urge to check over his shoulder. He was as bad as Seimei, seeing spirits and demons everywhere! Except Seimei really did see spirits and demons everywhere. Uncertain, Hiromasa turned full circle, peering around the gloomy hall. Had this been young Naritoki’s quarters? The place felt empty, unused.

His thoughts wandered. The servants all seemed subdued, grieving for the young boy, yet Takamune had been cheerful. Well; there was no law requiring brothers to love one another. Perhaps Naritoki and Takamune had been rivals, instead. Or perhaps Takamune had been badgered one too many times by his younger brother.

Or maybe his good cheer was simply a mask to hide his true feelings.

Yes, that was probably it. Hiromasa felt happier as the idea took hold. How many times had he entertained guests while heartily wishing them to hell? He fancied that none of his visitors ever knew his innermost thoughts. None ever realised that he would gladly drop out of judging a cricket-singing contest or abandon a drinking party if Seimei sent word. No doubt it was the same for Takamune. Forced to act as the host while his father lay ill, probably grieving in private for his younger brother, it was the gentlemanly thing to do to fix on a smile and offer his guests an abundance of charm.

Awkward charm, to be sure, but charm nonetheless…

It was a pity he had spoken so abruptly to his mother. That had quite spoiled the illusion. And as for Aiko…! Hiromasa could not recall her ever raising her voice in anger before. But, he told himself, his cousin’s family had spent fifteen years here, away from civilisation. Things were different in the provinces.

Hiromasa ducked as he passed beneath another doorway decorated with strips of painted paper. Another brazier blocked the way, this one spilling threads of perfumed smoke. Sweet fragrance spiralled around him, almost masking another smell—the stink of sickness.

He paused, undecided, then stepped around the brazier and entered the room. Kanesuke was his cousin. He had come all this way to see Kanesuke again, and see him he would—even if his cousin was on his deathbed.

More incense plumed in the shadowed room. Blinds had been rolled down on three sides, creating a stultifying atmosphere. The fourth side opened onto the veranda and overlooked a garden, a rough wilderness that managed to be both charming and sad. A pail of water stood near the bed, a draped washcloth still dripping. At Hiromasa’s approach, a shape scuttled away behind one of the screens.

He paused. “Hello?”

Scuffling, then a slight movement. He glimpsed a sleeve around the edge of the screen, a pale hand pressed flat on the floor. Glossy black hair sweeping down as the maidservant bowed. She began to cry; quiet, dignified sobs.

Hiromasa felt sorry for her. Probably this was some valued retainer, maybe Naritoki’s old wet-nurse, now called upon to care for the master. He gentled his tone. “I will not disturb you. I just wish to sit with my cousin for a little while.”

The maid sniffled and withdrew behind the screen. Hiromasa waited until all was quiet before he went closer to the bed.

Paper charms dangled limply from the roof beams. A small, hanging octagonal mirror of polished bronze flashed in the sunlight, sending white motes dancing over the recumbent figure heaped with winter robes.

Sakamoto no Kanesuke lay shivering despite the warmth surrounding him. His breathing was laboured. His unbound hair splayed over the pillow, a mass of premature grey knotted and damp. His eyes were half open, yet it seemed he did not see. He neither turned his head at Hiromasa’s greeting nor gave even a flicker of acknowledgement at his kinsman’s presence.

“Cousin.” Hiromasa touched one mottled hand that lay above the heavy silks. Perhaps it was foolish of him to come here, to expose himself to the pestilence, but what else could he do? He searched for something to say. “I bring greetings from the capital. Not that we’ve been there recently—no, it’s been several months since we left Heian-Kyo, and I daresay the court has found new amusements and fresh gossip. But still, there are things I can tell you…”

He settled on the mat beside his ailing cousin and launched into a recitation of who had been promoted, who had been dismissed, which lady had transferred her affections to which lord, and numerous other pieces of tittle-tattle. Kanesuke was a great lover of gossip; Hiromasa only hoped that some of what he was narrating was getting through. Especially the story about Lord Umehara, the goatherd, and the Korean pirates. 

A giggle stopped him in the middle of his narration, just as he was doing a fine imitation of Lord Umehara’s pedantic blustering. The sound was sweet, musical—and came from behind the screen. Hiromasa waited a moment, then continued with his story. He was up to a good bit, too, where the goatherd happened to stroll into the marketplace and ridicule Lord Umehara’s wild claims. Imitating the goatherd’s rough accent gave him more of a problem, but judging by the fresh peal of giggles from behind the screen, it didn’t really matter.

Curious now, for the maid’s laughter was such a charming sound, Hiromasa got up from his seat and gently pushed the screen aside.

Sunlight fell upon the maid. She knelt upon a mat, a hand to her mouth to stifle her amusement. She was quite lovely in an innocent, artless fashion, her face round and pure as the moon. Though she wore plain, unpatterned robes of cream and brown, the fabric was of Chinese silk. Her hair was long, shining with health, and her eyes, though still red-rimmed from her earlier tears, now sparkled with liveliness.

Hiromasa stared at her. This was no wet-nurse or old retainer. Neither was she a simple maidservant. His gaze dropped to the full, rounded swell of her belly. Beneath his scrutiny, she sat a little straighter and placed a hand over her stomach.

He was no expert on such matters, but he guessed she must be close to birthing her child. Kanesuke’s child… although he remembered Aiko pouring scorn on the claim.

He smiled. She was young, perhaps only a few years older than Takamune, and though she met his gaze with a court lady’s boldness, he had the feeling that it was an act. She was a country girl, Takamune had said, plucked from some village of no importance and brought here as Kanesuke’s concubine. How terrifying this must be for her, so far from home and in such a vulnerable state! No wonder she’d been crying. Hiromasa’s eyes smarted in sympathy for her plight.

He cleared his throat. “Miss Masako?”

She gave a start, delicate colour washing over her face. “Oh! You know my name!”

“I had been told— That is to say— Takamune mentioned you, and Lady Aiko.”

Masako pressed both hands to her face and lowered her gaze. “You are my lord’s cousin, are you not? From Heian-Kyo?”

He gave her a little bow. “Minamoto no Hiromasa. I am at your service, miss.”

Her delightful giggles rang out again, then she broke into a fit of weeping. “Oh, my lord, I am sorry you came here at such a distressing time. My dear Kanesuke is desperately unwell, and Lady Aiko has taken against me. Perhaps her jealousy is reasonable,” she curved a hand protectively over her pregnant belly again, “especially as she lost our beloved Naritoki only a few weeks ago.”

Hiromasa hummed in acknowledgement. “It must be a hard thing to lose a child. And, yes, I have seen similar situations play out in the capital, the principal wife fearing that she is being cast aside for a younger rival…”

Masako shook her head, her cheeks stained with tears. “You must believe me, my lord, I never wished to be her rival! I have only friendship in my heart.”

“Women are fickle,” Hiromasa said with feeling, for well he knew. “Aristocratic ladies, at any rate. Forgive me, Miss Masako; I do not know your family and would hate to give offence…”

She laughed. “Oh, you need not worry about that! I am just a fisherman’s daughter. My village is one of the many that hug the coast to the north-east of this province. For years I gutted the catch and smoked the fish—look here, you can see where the knife slipped—so many small nicks and cuts…” Masako held her hands up, then rubbed them one over the other as if washing them. “I have been here in Fuchu almost a year, and though I cream my hands morning and night, I will always wear the rough skin of my childhood.”

Conscious of her status, yet eager to learn more, Hiromasa retreated a little so the screen was partially between them. If she felt at all uncomfortable, she could withdraw from his sight, but he hoped she would not.

“How did you meet my cousin? It was during his tour of the province, I believe?”

Masako cast a worried glance towards the slumbering form of Kanesuke. His breath whistled at the back of his throat as he snored. Her features softened, genuine affection shining through. She hugged her rounded belly before returning her attention to Hiromasa.

“I sold him a fish.” Her eyes filled with tears; briskly, she wiped them away on her sleeve. Her smile was tremulous now. “My lord was alone. I knew he was someone of importance—I could see it in his gestures and bearing—but he had no servants accompanying him. He came to my village and looked around, asked questions of those living there, and then he came to my stall and bought a fish.”

“How charming.”

She looked towards her master again and sighed. “The next day, he returned. He wanted to speak with my father, but Papa was out at sea. My lord waited all morning and all afternoon without a word of complaint. When my father arrived, stinking of fish and bad-tempered as he always was, my lord asked for my hand. He said I would be a junior wife, of course, but I would live a comfortable life and want for nothing.”

Caught up in the tale, Hiromasa leaned forward. “What did your father say?”

Masako shrugged. “He wanted money. Recompense for what he would lose.” Her eyes flashed, her tone sharpening. “Without me to sell his catch, he was just another fisherman scraping a living. He didn’t want to let me go, but my lord persuaded him.”

“And you’re happy here?” Hiromasa asked.

Kanesuke’s wheezing breaths stopped. They both turned, Masako coming up onto her knees, ready to rush to his side. Hiromasa willed his cousin to breathe again.

A moment later, Kanesuke gave a low moan. He seemed to shrink in on himself beneath the mounded robes, or perhaps it was a trick of the light. All the incense was making the atmosphere cloudy and uncertain.

“Happy,” Masako said, her tone musing. “I believe I am.” She spread her hands, angling them to the shafts of sunlight. Her knuckles bore old scars, and patches of rough skin were visible, like scales. She rubbed at her thumb. “I owe my lord a debt of gratitude. He has always been good to me. Always so kind.”

Her hand dropped once more to her belly; her expression became wistful. “He was delighted when I told him of our child. But now I fear—”

The sentence remained incomplete. Footsteps on the walkway outside, and then Takamune strode into the room. “Masako!” His gaze fell on her, fixing on her with fervent intensity. He came to a sudden halt. The paper charms fluttered; the twisting smoke from the brazier billowed and flattened.

Masako ducked her head, her glossy hair falling about her face.

Afraid that this might look inappropriate, Hiromasa tried to reassure the young man that nothing untoward was going on. “I came to see your father, and heard Miss Masako weeping behind the screen. I was curious, and we fell to talking. She was telling me of her affection for Lord Kanesuke.”

“Affection,” Takamune echoed. He was staring at Masako, seemingly unable to tear his gaze from her. Then he blinked, forced himself to look at Hiromasa. His smile was vague, an afterthought. “Your quarters are comfortable, I hope?”

“Very much so. Thank you.”

Takamune’s attention had shifted back to Masako. The tips of his ears had gone red. “You should not be here. It can only distress you, especially in your condition.” He seemed unable to decide between an officious or solicitous tone. “I must insist, Masako. Think of your child. Don’t expose yourself to worries and sickness.” He came towards her, hand outstretched. “Please,” his brow furrowed, anxious, “allow me to escort you to your rooms.”

Her lovely face half turned away, Masako gave him her hand and let him lift her to her feet. She adjusted her robes, the silk flowing like water over her rounded belly, and leaned against him for support.

Takamune shot Hiromasa a look that under other circumstances Hiromasa would decipher as triumphant. But surely not. There was no contest here. He had merely been speaking with the girl, indulging in nothing more than an innocent conversation.

But, as the young man led Masako from the room, murmuring soft words of comfort, Hiromasa wondered what kind of son Takamune was to have spared not a glance for his ailing father.

*

Feeling the need for fresh air, Hiromasa made his farewells to Kanesuke and went outside. He stood for a moment on the walkway, breathing deeply to chase away the drowsy effects of the incense, then crossed the gravelled courtyard. A smile tugged at his lips. Unless he was very much mistaken, a maid—a senior servant, by the quality of her dress—was attempting to flirt with Seimei.

By the time he was halfway across the open space, he could hear the maid’s admiring words: “Is that magic you’re doing, my lord? Ever so elegant hands you have. And so pale, your skin. Is that magic, too? Because I can tell a man like you has no need of powder and paint to make hisself look handsome. Natural elegance, that’s what it is. Or is it magic? You can tell me, my lord, I won’t breathe a word…”

Hiromasa bit the inside of his mouth to stop from guffawing. The scuff of his footsteps in the gravel seemed to come as welcome relief—Seimei tucked a paper charm above the doorframe and turned with none of his… what had the maid said? Ah yes—‘natural elegance’.

The look Seimei gave him was one part annoyance to two parts gratitude. “Ah,” he said. “Lord Hiromasa. How does your cousin fare?”

Hiromasa climbed the steps onto the veranda and gave the maid a haughty stare. She stared back, then started, bobbed a curtsey, and took herself off at a bustling pace.

“Thank you.” Seimei sounded bemused.

“Your face, Seimei…!” Hiromasa succumbed to his hilarity. After the sadness and worry of Kanesuke’s sickroom, it was good to laugh again. He sighed, leaning back against a pillar to examine his companion’s neat brushwork on the charms. “My cousin is gravely ill. He shivers as if cold, and his breathing seems restricted. His eyes are open, but he does not see. He gave no sign of recognising me. Nor did he seem to know Miss Masako.”

“Ah, so you met the concubine.” Seimei packed away his brushes and cleaned out the ink palette by drawing his fingers over it and muttering a few words. He returned the items to the leather bag he’d brought with him, then gestured that they should sit on the steps.

“She is not a concubine, she is Kanesuke’s junior wife,” Hiromasa corrected, seating himself in the partial shade. The wood was warm beneath him, and a heat haze shimmered over the courtyard.

“Indeed.” Seimei settled beside him, white hunting costume dazzling in the full sun. From the bag he took two green-glazed cups and a small jar of wine.

One day, Hiromasa promised himself, he would search Seimei’s bag. But not today. And probably not ever, if he were honest. Who knew what manner of things were stored in there? Best not to know.

He accepted a cup of wine and drank, the liquid cool and refreshingly sharp, like ripe berries. Relaxing, smiling his appreciation, he told Seimei of what had transpired between him and Masako.

“She is perfectly charming,” he finished, flourishing the cup for more wine, “an innocent country girl trying to make a better life for herself. She laughed at my story of Lord Umehara and the goatherd—”

“It is a very amusing tale.”

“And she is very close to becoming a mother, yet her thoughts are for the father of her child, not for her own wellbeing. Takamune was right to scold her, though his behaviour…” Hiromasa stared into the cup, uncertain whether he should mention Takamune’s possessiveness towards the girl and negligence towards Kanesuke. He sighed. “Well. His behaviour was not very filial.”

“Mm.” Seimei seemed more interested in savouring the wine. He gazed across the courtyard, watching one of the servants sweeping a walkway. The steady sound of the bristles rasping over the floorboards was almost hypnotic.

“So, who is your new friend?” Hiromasa teased.

He received a cool look in response. “Otomi is Lady Aiko’s personal maid.” Seimei’s tone was dry. “She’s from Fuchu and has served the household since they came here. She was at pains to tell me that she possesses a wealth of information about the family, should we need it.”

Hiromasa folded his mouth into a line to stop the rush of jests he knew Seimei would not appreciate. He buried his nose in his wine-cup and drank, then sat looking out over the peaceful courtyard.

The sun was climbing lower as the afternoon passed, but the heat was at its most intense. Sweat prickled his hairline, and he wished he could take off his cap. It would be nice to lie in the cool comfort of their room and idly watch the birds flit from branch to branch, and to listen to—

He started, sat up straight. _That_ was what was missing. Birdsong. Insects chirring. There was no sound at all, save the sweep of the broom and the splash of wine in the cups.

“There’s no birdsong,” he said, surprised he hadn’t noticed it before. He listened, straining his ears, then shook his head. “No insects, either.”

Seimei paused, the cup held to his lips. “According to Otomi, Lady Aiko has a suspicion as to the reason for the absence of birds and insects.”

“Oh?”

He drank, then said, “Lady Aiko believes Masako to be a nure-onna.”

“A…” Due to his friendship with Seimei, Hiromasa had heard of many creatures and demons—many more than he cared to know about, if truth be told—but this was a new one for him. He took a drink of wine to moisten his mouth. “A what?”

“A nure-onna.” Seimei spoke as easily as if it was a sparrow or a grasshopper. He drained his cup and set it down on the veranda with a click. “The nure-onna is a female water-serpent, with the head of a woman and the body of a large snake. They often disguise themselves in human clothing, sometimes as old grandmothers, at other times as beautiful young women. They lure their victims by means of a swaddled object, which they claim is a baby.

“The nure-onna pretends to be ill, or to faint: ‘Kind sir, gracious lady, won’t you hold my child, my grandchild, just for a moment?’ And the victim does so, gladly, and moves the swaddling aside to peer at the child—only to see a rock.”

Seimei’s eyes glinted. He was enjoying this story. “The victim realises they have been tricked and try to cast the rock aside. But alas, it is heavy, and getting heavier, weighing them down. They cannot let it go. It holds them still, and they cannot flee. The nure-onna casts off her disguise and is revealed in her serpentine form, a dreadful sight. And then…”

Hiromasa leaned closer. “Then?”

“With her long, forked tongue,” Seimei brought his hands together, settling them across his knees, “she drains her victim of blood and leaves their corpse on the shore.”

“Seimei! That’s horrible!” Hiromasa rocked back, spilling some of his wine. He shook out his sleeve, using the distraction to clear his head of the terrifying images engendered by Seimei’s tale. “Aiko really believes Miss Masako could be one of those… creatures?”

Seimei’s expression was opaque. “Otomi admitted that she had spied on the young lady on various occasions. One time, apparently, she saw Masako catch and eat a dragonfly. Another time, she was seen eating a cricket.”

Hiromasa was filled with disgust. To accuse that lovely, lonely young woman of being a monster! Keeping his voice even, he said, “I have a great deal of affection for Aiko, but I must say it’s clear that the allegation has its roots in simple jealousy. It’s a tale as old as time: A pretty young concubine wins over the husband, and the wife is jealous.” He shook his head sadly. “It’s nothing but a nasty rumour, Seimei. I’m sorry that Lady Aiko feels that way, for Miss Masako wishes only to be her friend.”

Eyebrows arched, Seimei looked at him. “How, then, do you explain the lack of birds and insects?”

Casting around for a logical explanation, Hiromasa pointed at the servant still diligently sweeping. “It seems Kanesuke’s household is kept exceptionally clean. Certainly cleaner than you keep _your_ house, Seimei, and _you_ have dozens of shikigami to tend to your every whim! Well, then—fewer insects means fewer birds. That’s the answer. Nothing to worry about.”

A faint smile played over Seimei’s lips. “If you say so.”

Allowing himself to be goaded, Hiromasa said, “Or maybe the holy man’s spells that you found so lacking have served their purpose after all, and driven the insects out!”

“Ah yes, the redoubtable Genzo,” Seimei mused. “I should like to meet him. Perhaps tomorrow I will venture towards the foothills of Mount Tsukuba.”

“I will come with you,” Hiromasa said. “It would be good to see something of the countryside hereabouts.”

And, he did not need to add, it would be good to get away from the oppressive atmosphere of a household in mourning.

*

“I apologise for the poor quality of the food,” Aiko said from her position at the head of the room. “We are still bound by the observances of grief. But while our diet is restricted, yours is not. Cousin, Lord Seimei, please eat freely.”

Hiromasa bowed. “We would not dream of being so rude. The loss of Naritoki affects me, too. Seimei and I will be glad to share the simplicity of your meal.”

“Prettily done,” Seimei murmured as they seated themselves on bamboo mats beside the low tables. “But I refuse to drink inferior wine, and so…” He passed the width of his sleeve over the wine jar that stood nearby, muttered a few words, then unstoppered the jar and poured a generous amount into Hiromasa’s cup before filling his own.

“You are kindness itself.” Hiromasa tasted the vintage, which was naturally far superior to anything the Sakamoto household could ever possess. It would go a long way to making up for the lack of delicacies at the table. He watched a maidservant place a dish in front of him, of plain rice with some shreds of steamed fish on top, and sighed.

Seimei ate as he always did, with delicacy and efficiency. Takamune, by contrast, shovelled rice into his mouth as if eager to be away. Aiko ate little and drank a lot, her gaze brooding on her son.

Hiromasa picked at his meal, more interested in the silent interaction between his hosts. The sun slid towards the horizon, casting long shadows across the burnished floor and onto the painted screens that had been drawn back to create extra space. Incense of aloes and sandalwood burned on a brazier outside on the veranda, the fragrance the same as the one that permeated Aiko’s gowns. Beyond the walls of the compound, pine trees stirred with a breath of wind.

“Lady Aiko,” Seimei said, breaking the hush, “Hiromasa told me that you grew up here in Hitachi.”

She seemed as surprised as Hiromasa at the remark. Taking her fan, she flipped it open and spoke around it. “I did. My father was the governor here in his time. Our house was not this one, of course—we lived elsewhere, in a residence I thought very fine when I was a child.”

Some of her stiffness disappeared; she smiled. “Father was not as great a noble as my dear Kanesuke. More of a farmer than a gentleman, my mother used to claim—though she said it with affection.”

Seimei nodded. “You had a happy childhood.”

Hiromasa stared at him in astonishment. He could count on one hand the number of occasions when Seimei had voluntarily made polite conversation. This was the kind of socially acceptable chitchat at which he excelled, not Seimei!

Aiko was nodding, lost in reminiscence. “It was idyllic. I paddled in the lake, climbed trees, ran through the fields, hiked up Mount Tsukuba. My father would go on a progress every two years, and he always took me with him. I know every corner of Hitachi, Lord Seimei. I know it intimately, as a most beloved friend.” She gave a sigh. “Of course I was delighted to be married, but it was quite a shock to leave my home behind. The capital… Well, no doubt you will think me shockingly provincial, but I did not take to Heian-Kyo at all. Too busy, too noisy, too full of people too full of themselves.”

Seimei chuckled, the sound low and deep. “You describe my thoughts exactly, Lady Aiko. If I could live away from the city, I would be content.”

Hiromasa made a rude noise and poured more wine. “You _do_ live in the countryside, Seimei. It is quite exhausting to reach your house, up there in the north-eastern quarter of the city.” He turned to Aiko and Takamune. “It is considered desirable to live on one of the grand avenues, Suzaku or Shijo, but despite his position at court, Seimei insists on residing in the strangest abode close to where the Kamo river touches the crumbling old city walls.”

“It sounds lovely.” Aiko folded her fan and bestowed a genuine smile upon Seimei. “I regret that I never had the opportunity to explore the capital. Perhaps if I had seen a house such as yours, I would think more fondly of my time there.” She turned to Hiromasa, blushing a little. “I mean no discourtesy to your family, my lord. Indeed, your mother was so gracious and kind, and showed me how to go about. I have nothing but gratitude towards her, and only the fondest of memories.”

Hiromasa waved away her words. “Mother enjoyed your company. She said several times that it was a shame you and Lord Kanesuke were sent back to the provinces. But…” Aware that he’d blundered, he cut a look at Seimei and fell silent.

“You need not hide the truth from your friend. The facts are known to all.” Aiko let her fan drop, closing it with a sharp movement. “My husband made a political mistake. He had been tipped as the next Major Controller in the Office of the Imperial Storehouse, but in retaliation for a series of misjudged remarks about the Emperor’s new daughter, he was appointed instead to my father’s former position, that of Governor of Hitachi.”

Though he’d been only a youth at the time of the disgrace, Hiromasa remembered it clearly. Rumour had swept amongst their ranks, and Lady Aiko had become a figure of mockery once more. Kanesuke had blustered and bumbled, protesting his innocence, but he, too, was a mere provincial, and thus expendable. They had left the capital that night, leaving Hiromasa’s mother to take charge of packing up the rest of their belongings and sending it on.

Seimei took a sip of wine, his countenance placid. “You must have been delighted to return home.”

Aiko’s smile was touched with wistfulness. “I was ecstatic. But Kanesuke was not. At least, not at first. He soon came to realise that the charms of the capital are transitory, and that here in Fuchu, in Hitachi, our life has meaning and purpose. Soon he grew to love the land that nurtured me.”

On the opposite mat, Takamune shifted restlessly. His rice bowl was empty, and he’d been pouring more wine with a free hand. His cheeks were flushed and his mouth downturned, irritation in the line of his shoulders. “I barely remember the capital.” Bitterness in his tone. “Oh, I remember you, Cousin Hiromasa—how you would play kick-ball with me—but the rest is a blur. Tall buildings, red columns, wide avenues full of dust and ox-carts. I wasn’t permitted to go exploring on my own.” His grip tightened around his wine-cup. “How I would love to see Heian-Kyo again! As a man this time, not as a child. You would show me around, would you not, cousin? I could accompany you to parties and hunts. I would like to see the market, and visit wine shops, and…”

Fearing the young man would say something indelicate, Hiromasa said loudly, “You are welcome to stay with me any time you please.”

“Very kind of you. Gentlemanly, as one would expect of a person of breeding.” Takamune drained his cup and set it carefully on the low table. He looked up, his gaze burning around the room. “Masako must come, too. I insist upon it.”

Aiko sniffed. “I hardly think that would be appropriate.”

“She would enjoy it!” Takamune threw his defiance at his mother. “I will buy her an ox-cart of her own and dress it with the finest damask. I will take her to the market and clothe her in silks. She will have maids and companions, and poets to sing her praises. How happy she will be! And I will be the one to make her smile. _Me_ , Mother!”

A stony silence clutched the room. Hiromasa stared into his half empty rice bowl. Seimei sat perfectly straight, hands folded in his lap.

The atmosphere strained, lengthened, then Aiko snapped. Pale with anger, she plucked at the paper charms tucked into the sleeves of her gown and began to shred one.

“This family, this household, has been cursed since Masako joined it.” She spoke the name as if it tasted rancid. “Accidents and mishaps have become commonplace. Milk curdled, grain gone bad, vegetables stunted. Good quality wine from the capital turned to vinegar. Birds and insects vanished, and what of my pet cat?”

Takamune heaved an exaggerated sigh and rolled his eyes. “I told you, Mother, your cat simply ran off.”

“She did not!” Two spots of colour burned on Aiko’s cheeks. “Otomi found her over a month ago. Dead—strangled—tossed beneath my private veranda. I kept silent, for I knew any sign of grief would bring her joy. But then she struck down Naritoki. She killed your brother with her poison, and now your father lies dying of the same malady. Why can’t you see it, son?” Tears streamed down her face as she implored the young man. “My child, _look_. Look beyond the surface and you will see her for what she truly is—a vile monster, out to destroy our family!”

“No, Mother! I will listen to no more of your jealous ravings!” Takamune thrust himself to his feet, the movement so violent he knocked over the table and sent his cup rolling across the floor. “Masako is innocent and lovely! She doesn’t deserve to be slandered by you. I won’t stand for it, do you hear me? You won’t speak of her again, but if you do, you will speak of her with respect!”

Seimei followed the outburst with interest, but Hiromasa squirmed, embarrassed by the unpleasantness. He groped for some way to change the topic, but his tentative question about the artist of the painted screens was ignored.

Aiko was on her feet now, cold fury emanating from her as she stared down her son. “I will speak of her however I choose! How dare you think you know better than me. You know nothing of women!”

Takamune snatched off his cap and hurled it across the room. His hair was coming down, his agitation adding to his dishevelment. “I know plenty! Oh, no doubt you want me to live like a monk, but I have been a man for many years now. Not like Naritoki, my pure little brother! He was too afraid to even smile at a girl. But not me! I do know women, Mother. I know them very well!”

Fresh tears coursed down Aiko’s face. “You speak of your brother in the same breath as you dishonour yourself! What must our dear cousin think, to hear us screaming at each other like fishwives? But he is family, let him hear!”

Takamune darted a wild glance towards Hiromasa. “Yes, let him hear, and he can decide which of us is right!”

Hiromasa shrank back. This was one contest he had no desire to judge.

“Tell the truth, then,” Aiko cried, her arm outstretched, pointing with her fan. “You covet Masako. Your behaviour is unfilial. You have lain with her, have you not? The child she carries—is it my lord’s or is it yours?” She let her arm fall, her chin held high, imperious. “Answer, damn you!”

The fight seemed to go out of Takamune. Flushed and miserable, he sat down with a thump and covered his face with his hands. “I don’t know. Truly, cousin,” he addressed Hiromasa through his splayed fingers, “I don’t know if the babe is mine or not. It could be mine. I _want_ it to be mine. A strong son, a pretty daughter—I care not. If Father dies, I will claim the child as my own and marry Masako.”

Aiko put a hand to her chest, her face gone white. “What!”

“I will!” Spirit returned to Takamune. His fists clenched, he snarled at his mother. “I love her, and she loves me! We are fated to be together!”

A scream of rage. Aiko took a step towards her son, trembling. “Never! I forbid it! I will throw the bitch back into the sea like the jetsam she is!”

Takamune leapt to his feet again. “Mother, I am warning you—”

Hiromasa grabbed at Seimei’s sleeve. “ _Do_ something.”

Seimei raised his eyebrows. “They are your family.”

“That’s why I don’t want them to get hurt! Especially not by each other!”

“Mm.” Apparently unconcerned by the urgency of the request, Seimei took his time straightening the sleeve Hiromasa had tugged. Then he drank some more wine, lifted his hands, and chanted something low and fast.

The effect was immediate. Both Aiko and Takamune were silenced mid-shout, their mouths open but no sound escaping. As fluid and graceful as the Gosechi dancers, they moved back to their former positions and seated themselves.

Seimei lowered his hands. Adopting an enquiring expression, he asked, as if the whole distasteful argument had been a dream, “You mentioned Lord Kanesuke’s progress through the province. Is the land fertile hereabouts?”

Hiromasa stared. First small talk, now a question about agriculture. What was Seimei thinking?

Aiko looked a little dazed, then she shook off the spell and found a polite smile. “The land is very good. Hitachi is a wealthy province, in rice production as well as in its fishing.”

Takamune snorted. “Mother is speaking too cautiously. But what do women know of the economy! My father takes his role as governor with all seriousness. He went on a tour to assess the quality of the land for himself, so he could amend the level of tax where necessary.” The young man adopted a pious look. “In several places, Father was able to ease the burden on the common people. He saw land lying empty and was told that the soil was too bad to bear crops. From his own purse he bought the land from the villagers and turned it into profitable rice fields.”

Aiko drew herself up, her nostrils flaring, her mouth pinched.

Takamune glanced at her, his eyes hooded. “It was claimed by some elders that the land was that put aside for the villagers’ allotments under the Great Reform, so they could have sustenance, but it was lying fallow. No one was farming it. The villagers were delighted to receive the spices and silks my father gave them in exchange for the fields.”

Seimei toyed with his wine-cup. “Whereabouts are these fields?”

“A number of places,” Takamune said, his tone offhand as if the question bored him, “but the most profitable are at Kashima, Namegata, and Matsuoka.”

Aiko gave a little start. She covered it well, opening her fan and studying the inscription upon it, but Hiromasa noticed, and so had Seimei.

“It seems you feel strongly about this matter, my lady.” Seimei pitched his voice soft and low, casual.

Her smile was crystalline. “Not at all. As my son says, women know nothing of the economy. My husband did what he thought was for the best.”

Perhaps he imagined it, but Hiromasa was certain Aiko had laid a slight emphasis on the _he_. Frowning, he looked at Seimei, but his friend’s expression was as blank as a sheet of Michinoku paper.

“On that note,” she gestured, once more the elegant hostess, “I will bid you gentlemen a good evening. The servants will bring more wine. I suggest you retire to the west veranda; the views there are the most spectacular at the end of the day.”

They all rose with her. Takamune mumbled an apology and hurried off with almost indecent haste. No doubt he wanted to spend some more time with Masako, but Hiromasa was dismayed. He would have liked to share his memories of the time when Takamune was still a child, of the innocent games they’d played, not just kick-ball but shell-matching and archery lessons and basic swordplay with blunted sticks.

Probably such reminiscence would be unwelcome to one who felt his pride so keenly. Hiromasa sighed and made for the door, taking his wine-cup with him.

Aiko crossed his path and stood in front of him, one hand up to stay him. She tipped her head, her gaze going past him to where Seimei stood a short distance away. Satisfied that Seimei was out of earshot, she fixed Hiromasa with her gaze and said, “I apologise for exposing you to that unseemly quarrel. Tempers run high where that woman is concerned. Oh, Cousin, I’m certain that Masako has cursed this family! How else can our misfortune be explained?”

Seimei strolled towards them on silent feet. “I can give you explanations.” He pulled one of the spells from the sleeve of her gown. “But you may not welcome them.”

Startled, Aiko stared at him. Then colour washed across her face, and her chest heaved as if with affronted dignity. Turning her back on him, she bade Hiromasa goodnight and walked away without a word to Seimei.

They watched her leave until a maid drew a screen across to block their view.

Hiromasa let out an exasperated breath. “Seimei. That was rude.”

“Was it?” Seimei seemed interested in the spell he held, turning it this way and that so the red glow of the sunset caught along the inscribed characters. “I would argue that it was necessary.”

He folded the charm and tucked it into his hunting costume. Head cocked, he looked up, eyes gleaming. “Hiromasa, I need your help.”

Delighted by the request, so rare and therefore doubly precious, Hiromasa shook off the taint of the evening and beamed. “Anything, Seimei. Just name it.”

*

“A fool’s errand,” Hiromasa grumbled, addressing the ears of his horse, which twitched in sympathy. “That’s what this was. A fool’s errand, and so I must be a fool.”

He shifted position in the saddle, easing his back. How he longed for a nice hot soak in a tub! Even the brackish waters of Lake Kasumigaura looked pleasant. He was sticky with heat, his hair damp and his refined courtier’s silks hanging limp around his body. Yes, it would feel good to plunge into the water and feel its cool embrace. Even clambering through all that brine-encrusted mud and all those reeds, it would be worth it for a swim.

“After all the travelling I’ve done, Seimei asks me to spend another eight, nine, maybe even ten hours on horseback. And for what?” Hiromasa stroked the satin-smooth neck of his mount, aware that the horse had been doing most of the work on this trip. “He wants me to check whether the shrine doors at Namegata are open! I ask you, what kind of task is that? Before, he’s asked me to fight demons and rescue imperial princes and to journey to the realm of the gods, but this? This was a fool’s errand! Checking the shrine doors, indeed! Why couldn’t we have made that detour on our way to Fuchu, that’s what I want to know. I bet he won’t tell me. Maybe if I ask nicely. But…”

He sighed. The track seemed even rougher than it had when they’d passed this way only yesterday, and his mount seemed determined to tread in every rut and pothole it could find. Possibly the horse was taking its revenge. No doubt it had expected, as Seimei obviously had, that it and Hiromasa would spend the night at Namegata and return to Fuchu the following day.

But Hiromasa had no intention of idling away his time. There was a mystery in his cousin’s household, and if Seimei was planning on unravelling it, he would need Hiromasa’s help. And yes, travelling to Namegata to check the shrine was apparently all the help Seimei needed from him, but what if this hadn’t been a genuine request for assistance and instead was a method of getting Hiromasa out of the way?

Although… Hiromasa frowned in thought. Why would Seimei want him out of the way? Was it possible that real danger lurked in Fuchu? Perhaps Seimei had sent him away to keep him safe. But the Sakamotos were his family! If danger threatened, he should stand with them, stand with Seimei, ready to defeat it.

He sat a little straighter and urged the plodding horse forward, glad that he’d had this discussion with himself. Humming a tune, he gazed around at the scenery. Perhaps it was just the time of day, but things seemed brighter, objects sharper, than when they’d traversed this route yesterday. He let his gaze rest on the tranquillity of the lake, then felt his jaw slacken.

A woman was swimming out there, beyond the reeds ringing the banks. Swimming naked, her long dark hair streaming behind her as she sported. Though he was too far away to see any detail, Hiromasa was sure she was beautiful. Her figure was slim and supple, and she moved like a fish, now diving deep, now breaking the surface. He saw the flash of her teeth in a smile of joy and felt himself smile in response.

Then she saw him.

Rather than shriek and sink down into the water to protect her modesty, she trod water and stared at him. Even across the distance separating them, he felt her curiosity. The woman tossed her head, wet locks flying, and she waved, called out to him in a tongue he didn’t recognise.

Maybe he should go to her. Strip off his fine silks and stumble through the scratchy reeds and sucking mud and join her in the lake, playing in the cool water. Maybe—

His horse snorted, whickered.

Hiromasa looked away from the woman to see what had alarmed the animal. To the right, something huge and dark moved through the woodland. It made no sound, but the trees shook and swayed as if a great wind blew, and the earth seemed to tremble.

He brought the horse to a halt and waited, heart in his throat, pulse banging in his ears. He stared at the woods, expecting a monster to appear, but nothing happened. The trees stopped shaking, the earth became still. Birds resumed their song.

Hiromasa released a sigh, tense muscles relaxing. He patted his horse again and encouraged it to move on. He pulled at the collar of his undershirt and thought again of baths and bathing. His gaze slid back to the lake, to where he’d seen the woman.

She’d gone.

This time, his sigh was one of disappointment. No matter how hard he looked, he couldn’t catch sight of her. The lake was placid, and there was no sign of her at the shore. She had simply vanished.

The rest of his journey was uneventful.

Shortly before he reached Fuchu, he saw a young man seated on a rock by the side of the road. Hiromasa greeted him, and the man raised a hand in response. An ordinary, commonplace event, and yet Hiromasa found himself twisting around in the saddle for a second look. The young man had been handsome, and his mode of dress eccentric, even for the provinces. But when Hiromasa turned, the young man had vanished just as surely as the woman in the lake.

Hiromasa shrugged and carried on.

Seimei met him at the city gate, stepping forward from the shadows to lay a hand on the horse’s nose. The animal dropped its head, nudging at Seimei’s sleeves, and was rewarded with a treat. Hiromasa had a moment of jealousy, then Seimei smiled up at him and Hiromasa’s heart lifted.

“You were waiting for me.”

“I was.”

Seimei held the reins as Hiromasa dismounted. He winced, his legs unsteady and his behind aching. Just as he was about to launch into a description of the rigours he’d suffered on his journey, he noticed a monk in a rough hemp robe standing a short distance away, clearly waiting for the reunion to end.

The monk had a neatly tonsured head, but his grey beard was long and matted and his eyebrows, striped with grey, were wild and unkempt. The edges of his sleeves were ragged, and yet he wore a pair of good quality sandals. Realising he had Hiromasa’s attention, the monk bobbed a brief bow.

“Ah, yes,” Seimei said, his tone with a slight edge to it, “this is Genzo. Genzo, meet Minamoto no Hiromasa.”

“My lord.” The monk bowed again, deeper this time, and shuffled forward. His face was lined and deeply tanned, his eyes bright, his gaze darting.

“The monk who wrote the charms for the Sakamoto household.” Hiromasa took his cue from Seimei and allowed coolness to inhabit his voice.

“It has been my honour to be of service to Lady Aiko for many years.” Pride stiffened Genzo’s spine. “I was confessor to her esteemed parents, and taught Lady Aiko her sutras when she was a child. Though I was glad she had made an advantageous marriage, my spirits were low when she left for the capital. Then she returned, and the people of Hitachi rejoiced. Lady Aiko is a true daughter of this province.”

Hiromasa inclined his head. “Your loyalty does your credit.”

“Mm,” said Seimei. “Well, Hiromasa, what of your endeavours? Were the shrine doors open at Namegata? What did you see?”

“Nothing,” Hiromasa said. “The shrine was empty, the doors wide open. There wasn’t even a priest to watch over it. I wonder at you, Seimei, sending me all the way back on a fool’s errand! What did you expect me to see?”

“Ah. One moment.” Seimei made a soothing sound and passed a hand over Hiromasa’s eyes.

The light dimmed a little, the world seeming less bright and sharp than it had a moment ago. He pushed Seimei away, blinking around him until things seemed to settle, and all was as it should be. Hiromasa rubbed his eyes to be sure, then gave his friend a suspicious look. “What did you do?”

“I temporarily granted you the power to see kami. Now you have returned to me, you have no need of that ability and I restored your vision to its normal sight.”

Hiromasa stared. His thoughts jostled, images flooding his mind. “Then… the woman swimming in the lake, the vast silent creature amongst the trees, the young man on the rock…”

“All gods. Yes.” Seimei seemed very calm about it.

“But…” Hiromasa frowned, a tendril of unease creeping up his spine, “I saw no gods at the shrine.”

“Indeed.”

“Seimei! That means…”

“The gods are no longer enshrined,” Seimei said patiently. “Yes. That is a problem.”

The unease became a very bad feeling. “What gods were enshrined at Namegata?”

“The yato no kami.” Genzo spoke up, looking thoroughly miserable. “They are snake deities.”

“Snakes,” Hiromasa repeated. Cold spread through him. Aiko’s maid had claimed that Masako was a nure-onna. What if she was one of these other snake gods instead? By the very nature of their name, Gods of the Night Sword, these kami sounded dangerous.

“Centuries ago, they lived in the rice fields near the government office in Namegata.” Genzo wrung his hands. “They took the land as sacred to them, and grew angry when people tried to farm it. In their snake form, they were highly malevolent. Nothing gave them more pleasure than to destroy entire families through sickness and pestilence.”

Hiromasa jerked, snapping his gaze to Seimei, who nodded.

“They rampaged through the county, causing devastation,” Genzo continued. “Then, one day during the reign of Emperor Keitai, a man named Yahazu no Matachi stood up to the yato no kami. He built a shrine for the serpents, and promised a priest to offer them worship in perpetuity. The kami agreed to be enshrined and in exchange let Matachi and his people farm the rice fields.”

The old monk crushed his hands together to stop them from trembling. “For many centuries the contract between man and kami has held. The snake gods remained in their shrine, the doors closed except for the days of celebration and worship, a priest always on duty to care for the kami. But now…”

“The contract is broken,” Seimei said softly. “But by whom?”

Genzo bowed his head and rocked back and forth. “This is all my fault. Forgive me! She came to me asking for help, and I gave it willingly. I didn’t know she’d been to the shrine. I would never have agreed if I’d known.” He groaned, tears of remorse running down his wrinkled face. He lifted his hands to the heavens, beseeching. “I am not strong enough to defeat gods!”

Hiromasa looked between them, the bad feeling coalescing into the presentiment of a disaster. “She?”

“Lady Aiko.” A grave expression carved Seimei’s face. “In seeking justice, she has brought destruction upon her family.”

*

The shouting could be heard from the street.

Hiromasa, leading his horse, glanced at Seimei and Genzo before quickening his step. “We should hurry.”

Seimei looked grim, his brows drawn tight. The monk followed on behind, his robe flapping, worry and fear creasing his face.

The gates swung open at Hiromasa’s touch. It had not been locked, and no servant stood waiting to greet them. Almost all the retainers, it seemed, had congregated outside the main hall. They stood peering as if they could see into the shadowed interior and whispered to one another in shock and consternation.

Hiromasa tied his mount to the nearest post. With Seimei, he approached the main hall, their footsteps crunching on the gravelled courtyard. A few servants turned, but none moved from their position, too agog at the drama unfolding before them.

“My lords,” the gardener, Jubei, said, his expression alight with avid excitement, “you have returned at a most opportune time. Lady Aiko has thrown Masako out of the house, and Lord Takamune is angry!”

“And you believe this is an opportune time?” Hiromasa looked down his nose at the servant. “In what way?”

Jubei grinned. “You being the master’s cousin, and a noble lord from the capital, shouldn’t you have a say in what goes on?”

“I’m sure Lady Aiko is doing what she thinks is best.” The reply sounded weak to his ears, and Hiromasa was ashamed. Damn it, he’d liked Masako, with her innocent laughter and pretty face and simple ways. With the girl so close to giving birth, it was cruel of Aiko to cast her out. And what if the child she bore was Kanesuke’s, after all? As principal wife, she had a duty of care towards all her husband’s offspring. And if it was Takamune’s child, then she would be its grandmother. Surely the woman he knew, the sparkling, confident young matron who’d so impressed his younger self all those years ago, could not be so heartless as to reject her own grandchild!

A crash sounded within the hall. Hiromasa started forward, but Seimei drew him back. “Wait.”

“What if—”

“Wait.” Seimei held up a hand, his gaze glittering with the intensity of his concentration.

Hiromasa shot an agonised look towards the hall. His kinsmen were in there, screaming at one another, engaged in emotional violence. He should do something. While his cousin lay ill, he was the senior member of the family. The gardener was right—this was an opportune time. He should go inside and call Aiko and Takamune to order. He should sit down with them and help them reach a compromise. He should—

A ripple of reaction went through the crowd of servants. Footsteps pounded through the hall. One of the painted screens was shoved aside. Takamune ran out onto the veranda and stopped, seemingly bewildered by the sight of the household staring back at him. His mouth worked, rage scrawling his features. His body shook with suppressed emotion. He scanned the faces turned towards him, eagerness and hope flaring as he searched. Then he shook his head, despair taking him.

“Masako!” he shouted, striding to the edge of the veranda. “Masako!”

“How many times must I tell you? She’s gone. I threw her out.” Aiko emerged onto the veranda, her robes of mourning white unruffled and elegant. As she walked, her red underskirt flashed like a warning. She had abandoned her fan and her hair hung loose. Paper charms wagged and curled about her person, pinned into her gown, woven into the lustrous dark length of her hair.

Takamune swung around, his hands clenching. He half crouched, muscles tight as if he envisioned springing at his mother and causing her harm. “You’re doing this to punish me! You won’t win, Mother. I will leave here and find Masako. I will hunt the length and breadth of the land until I find her, and then I will marry her. Yes, I will! I will beg Father’s forgiveness and tell him I can’t live without her. He will understand. He will want me to be happy. Unlike _you_. You are the cause of my suffering!”

Aiko tossed her head, a moue on her painted lips. “Even now you act like a child. Do you not see, I did this for you? You are not ready to be a father. There is no way of telling if Masako’s babe is yours, your father’s, or some other man’s. I saw her looking at some of the servants with lustful eyes. You think you and your father are the only ones to plough that particular furrow?”

“You bring shame upon yourself.” Takamune turned a cold face upon her, but it was clear from his trembling mouth that her jibes had sunk home. “You are deranged with jealousy and do not know what you’re doing. As soon as Father is well, I will recommend that you be placed in a convent where you can do no more harm.”

“Harm?” Aiko laughed. “My son, open your eyes! Masako is a demon, and she has ensnared you! If you persist in this belief that you love her, if you go in search of her, she will kill you.” Her expression changed, from cool indifference to passion. She crossed the veranda, reaching for Takamune. “Please, forget her. She is nothing. Her child is nothing. I do this for your own good, believe me.”

With an exclamation of disgust, Takamune thrust her away. “Believe you? A woman who rejects the friendship of an innocent girl? Who sees demons behind a pure smile? A woman who can callously cast out another woman on the verge of giving birth? For shame, Mother! The babe might be your grandchild. Truly, _you_ are the monster!”

Seimei spoke up. “You are correct.”

Silence fell, made more profound by the lack of insect noise and birdsong. The servants swivelled to stare at him, pale with shock. Takamune’s jaw sagged open. Only Lady Aiko weathered the challenge, standing tall with her chin raised, a strange kind of defiance in her eyes.

“What did you say?” Takamune’s voice was a whisper; he had to repeat himself.

“I said you are correct.” Seimei made his way through the gathered servants and climbed the steps onto the veranda. The train of his hunting costume slithered across the burnished floorboards, creating a hushing sound. He walked past Takamune and stood in front of Aiko, meeting her steady gaze. “Your mother is a monster.”

She studied him for a long moment, then sniffed in disdain. “How dare you.”

Seimei’s smile was polite, but it had steel behind it. “Oh, I dare, Lady Aiko.” He flipped the width of his sleeve over his arm. “I have been speaking to Genzo. He fears for you, my lady.”

“Genzo?” A frisson of alarm in her expression; she looked out at the assembled crowd and stilled when she saw the monk.

Hiromasa moved closer to Genzo. The old man was weeping quietly, tears glistening and darkening his beard. He mopped his face, touching his fingers to his forehead. “I’m sorry, my lady. I have failed you. I didn’t know— didn’t understand…”

The servants turned to one another in confusion.

Takamune shook his head. “What didn’t he understand? Cousin, do you know? And Lord Seimei, what do you mean by these wild accusations?” He all but stamped his foot. “I demand to know what’s going on!”

Seimei inclined his head, respect in his features. “My lady,” he said, and reached out. Touched Aiko’s face. Caressed the line of her jaw.

Hiromasa stepped forward. “Seimei!”

At the same time, Takamune cried, his tone outraged, “What do you think you’re doing? That is my mother!”

Aiko stood motionless, her gaze fixed on Seimei. A slight smile curved her lips.

Seimei lifted his free hand to his mouth and murmured a few words. His right hand slid behind Aiko’s ear. He looked like a lover plunging his fingers into his lady’s scented hair.

Shocked by the intimacy of the gesture, Hiromasa drew breath to remonstrate with his friend again. Then expelled that breath in a gasp when Seimei took Aiko’s face—her very _face_ —away from her head as if her features had been nothing more than a mask.

The servants cried out. Some screamed. Takamune stood frozen in horror. Hiromasa’s head spun, his vision fading then sharpening to take in the appalling sight before him.

Aiko’s face, held gently in Seimei’s hand. The front of Aiko’s skull open, the cavity inhabited by a nest of hissing, roiling snakes.

“The yato no kami!” Genzo whispered, and dropped to his knees.

Takamune uttered a strangled cry and ran towards Aiko. “Mother!”

The snakes rose from their host, some hissing, their jaws wide and teeth glinting. Others swayed back and forth, tongues flickering. They had eyes as black as obsidian, and were all striped green and brown, their scaly bellies the yellow of dried grass. They moved sinuously, continually, in horrible contrast to the stillness of Aiko’s body. The scent of aloes and sandalwood was obliterated by the smell of parched earth and temple incense, of decaying flesh and cold grief.

Seimei held out an arm to prevent Takamune from coming closer. He gazed at the snakes as if trying to look each creature in the eye, then began to speak to them.

Hiromasa curled one hand about his sword. His palm was sweating, his heart banging against his ribs. He moved nearer to the veranda, forcing himself to be slow and steady. No sudden movements. No sign of threat. Sweat ran down his face. Salt on his lips, stinging where he must have bitten them earlier in fright.

He couldn’t understand what Seimei was saying. An archaic language, long forgotten except by members of the Bureau of Divination. Even Genzo was frowning as he listened. Or perhaps Seimei spoke the tongue of serpents. It was possible; the child of a fox must know how to converse with other wild creatures.

The yato no kami writhed and twisted, but seemed to be attending to Seimei’s words. Hiromasa held his breath as Seimei went even closer, so close to Aiko’s body now that the serpents were a mere finger-width’s distance from him. Their mouths opened, their fangs gleaming, dripping venom. At any moment they could turn on him, bite him, and Hiromasa would have to watch Seimei die.

The snakes were gods. An onmyouji, no matter how learned and powerful, could not hope to overcome them.

“Dead! He’s dead!

Hiromasa gave a start, turning towards the frantic cry. A woman blundered down the steps on the far side of the courtyard and hurried towards them. He recognised Otomi, Lady Aiko’s personal maid.

“The master’s life has left him!” Otomi wailed, lifting her hands to the heavens. “Lord Kanesuke is dead!” 

Aiko’s body collapsed. Her face vanished from Seimei’s hand, and her clothes fell to the floor in a heap of white and red. From the folds of silk, dozens of snakes emerged, slithering across the veranda.

Seimei stood in their path.

Hiromasa ran for the steps, taking them two at a time. He made to grab Seimei, to haul him out of the way to safety, but Seimei dodged his grasp. Takamune started yelling, leaping from one place to the next as the serpents began to spread out, heads pulled back, hissing. Desperate, Takamune seized Hiromasa’s sword from its scabbard and waved it at an approaching snake.

“I’ll cut you in two!” he shouted, his bravado slipping as the snake slithered closer. “I’m not afraid of you! I’m not!”

“You can’t kill them, young master.” Genzo rose painfully to his feet. “They are gods. Destroy one, and you will destroy yourself.”

A horrified shriek bubbled up from the young man’s throat. “Where is my mother? What have these things done to her?”

Otomi had reached the steps. Her cries of grief now became screams of terror. “My lady! What has happened to her? Oh, my lady, no!”

Hiromasa caught the maidservant before she could throw herself into the way of the serpents. Otomi hung in his grasp, struggling for a moment before she gave way to sobs. She turned her face against his arm and howled.

As if released to give voice to their own horror, the gathered servants joined her in weeping and wailing.

Seimei stood calm and silent amidst the chaos. He drew his fan from his sleeve and opened it, blue paper painted with gold chrysanthemums. “Genzo,” he said, “assist me.”

The monk came to stand with him. Together, they corralled the snakes, Seimei wafting his fan over them, Genzo dancing about, his arms spread wide, pushing them back to where Seimei wanted them.

“Yato no kami,” Seimei said, addressing the tangled knot of serpents, “you have seen justice done on behalf of a daughter of Hitachi. You have accepted the sacrifice she has made. Go now, and return to your shrine at Namegata.”

One of the snakes reared up, twitching its head from side to side. It hissed.

Seimei regarded it, then hissed back. He snapped his fan shut and brought it down hard against the palm of his free hand. The sound cracked across the courtyard and silenced the snakes.

“Go.” He pointed.

A moment of milling around, and then the snakes moved as one to the edge of the veranda and started to coil themselves down the wooden supports and onto the ground. Once on the gravel, they disentangled themselves and began to wriggle, slow at first and then faster. The servants screamed, jumped back, but the serpents paid them no heed. The largest snake writhed to the fore and was off, leading the other creatures across the compound. Heading for the lake, for the track that led south-east to Namegata.

In a matter of heartbeats, the snakes had gone, leaving behind a stunned silence.

Otomi still clung to Hiromasa, her tears soaking through his sleeve. He held her steady, more than a little glad of the excuse to stay on his feet. Without her unwitting support, he was sure he’d be on the floor.

Takamune recovered first. Hiromasa’s sword dropped from his fingers. He tore his gaze from his mother’s empty clothes and snapped his head towards the hall where Kanesuke lay. “Father!”

He leapt from the veranda, staggered a little upon landing, then righted himself and ran across the courtyard. Puffs of dust rose in his wake. The servants watched him go, still too shocked to do anything other than stare and press their hands to their mouths.

Seimei stood silent, the train of his hunting costume touching Lady Aiko’s red and white skirts. Genzo knelt beside the discarded garments, mumbling prayers along his rosary beads.

It seemed both an age and no time at all before Takamune came running back. His face was a mask of grief, his hair falling in a tangle about his shoulders. Tears rolled down his cheeks. “He’s dead! Father is dead!” The young man’s voice was hoarse. He came to a halt, shoulders heaving. He bowed his head, then looked up. A ferocious joy, bitter and desperate, shone from him. “I must find Masako!”

Before anyone could move to stop him, Takamune sprinted to where Hiromasa had tied his horse. He released the animal and clambered into the saddle, then urged it on with a wild shout. The horse shied, then responded to the commands and galloped out through the half-open gate.

Seimei let his sleeves drop and swung about. A few whispered words, and what remained of Aiko shrank, became a single paper charm. He stooped to pick it up and tucked it inside his hunting costume.

“I think,” he said in calm, measured tones, “we are in need of a drink. Otomi, would you be so kind?”

*

The maidservant was glad of something to do. She hastened about her task, clapping her hands and shooing the other servants into action. With Lord Kanesuke dead and Takamune tearing around the countryside searching for his beloved Masako, there was much to do. Ogai was sent to summon priests, and other servants scattered about the house and into the town to begin the sad preparations for another funeral.

Hiromasa took refuge on the veranda of the guest quarters. He stared at the carefully raked gravel around the rocks in the garden, then raised his gaze to the dark shape of a pine tree. His head was spinning, unable to take in everything that had happened. His cousin Kanesuke, dead of pestilence. Masako, expelled from the house, now wandering alone and vulnerable, about to give birth to her child. Takamune, looking for her in desperation. And Aiko, who had been not a woman at all but a hollow shell, an elegant façade behind which lay terrifying snake deities.

He took a sip from his cup. Otomi had brought wine, and this time Seimei hadn’t cast a spell over it to turn it into a more pleasant vintage. This time it tasted sour.

“How did you know?” His tone was dulled with shock. Hiromasa looked at Seimei, who was sat leaning against one of the room’s pillars as he was wont to do at home. His companion wore a thoughtful expression, brows drawn low, his chin tucked into the collar of his hunting costume.

“I knew there was something wrong when we passed Namegata.” Seimei’s eyes closed; he looked pained. “I felt a disturbance, an emptiness. But it didn’t make sense. What would make a kami—dozens of kami—leave the place where they’d been comfortably enshrined for six hundred years?”

Hiromasa put down his cup. He was surprised to find himself angry. “Well, Seimei? What _would_ make them leave?”

“The prayers of a beloved daughter of Hitachi.” It was Genzo who replied. The old monk had joined them and was cross-legged on one of the bamboo mats. He seemed to have aged twenty years, his beard lank and his shoulders so slumped he resembled an old doll dropped from a shelf.

“Aiko asked to be—to be consumed by serpents?” Hiromasa shook his head savagely. “She asked for the yato no kami to kill her son, her husband?”

Genzo took a gulp from his cup. He held it with both hands, but still it trembled. “Lady Aiko came to me asking for help. She had discovered a great injustice, she said. She wanted to put it right, whatever the cost. When I asked her for details, she would not tell me, only begged me to trust her. She asked me for containment spells, and spells of binding that would be temporary.”

He raised his gaze to Seimei, then looked away. “These were powerful spells, beyond my meagre abilities, but I had known Lady Aiko for many years and knew her to have a pure heart. I withdrew from the world and focused all my attention on casting the spells. I made the charms and brought them to her during the Third Month. She thanked me with tears in her eyes, but did not explain herself. Why should she? She was the wife of the Governor of Hitachi, and I but a simple monk.”

“But you suspected something was amiss,” Seimei said softly.

“I did.” Genzo abandoned the pretence of drinking. He huddled into himself, wounded and heartsore. “I would visit her several times a year for her to make confession. I came here as usual and noticed that, while the charms were hung about the household, she had not listened to my advice on their placement. She was even wearing some of them. I warned her against such a thing, but she said she knew what she was doing.

“When she came to give her confession, she said nothing of herself. Instead she told me that her husband, Lord Kanesuke, had stolen the land of the peasants. Land promised in perpetuity to the people during the Great Reforms. Even though it lay fallow, it still belonged to the village. It was not for sale, and Lord Kanesuke had taken it as though it were. He had paid below the value of what the land was worth, then put the peasants to work on it for his own enrichment.”

Genzo shook his head. “I was appalled, as any man should be, to hear of the Governor’s duplicity. I urged Lady Aiko to write to the Great Ministers in the capital, so they could put right this terrible wrong. But she laughed bitterly and said on the contrary, the Great Ministers were likely to applaud her husband’s actions and then would tax him accordingly. The theft of public land by the aristocratic class was rife, she said. But she had a plan to stop it, at least as far as Hitachi was concerned.

“I asked what she intended to do. She laughed again and said it was all in hand. She had begged the help of those more powerful than herself, and they would be the ones to enact justice.”

The old monk was weeping again, his voice hoarse. “I pleaded with her not to be rash. I feared that she had done a deal with a demon. That feeling grew when her youngest son, Naritoki, grew sick. Oh, she was concerned for his health, but there was a calm about her, my lords. As if she expected his death, and accepted it.”

He wiped his eyes on his sleeve and coughed to clear his throat. “She was the same when Lord Kanesuke took ill. An appearance of acceptance and calm, even when the prognosis was death. Lady Aiko had always been of a passionate nature, and now she seemed placid. The only time she showed any animation was in her dealings with her husband’s concubine, Masako. How she hated that girl!” 

Hiromasa considered the monk’s words. He nodded, then turned to Seimei. “But how did you know about Aiko?”

Seimei was silent a moment, swirling the wine in his cup. “A number of things. You yourself gave me a clue when you remarked on the unnatural silence about the house. No birdsong, no insects. Otomi had been at pains to tell me of her mistress’s belief that Masako was to blame. That roused my suspicions. And then there were the wards, inadequately protected despite the amount of charms displayed all over the compound.”

He took a slow sip of his drink; licked the excess from his bottom lip. “The wards were open to the north and south. It is understandable if a man makes a mistake in performing rituals of protection, but to do so in two separate places…” Seimei slid a glance at Genzo. “It made me uneasy. What lies to the south? A great deal, naturally; including the lake. But Namegata is also located in that direction. The southern wards were left open so the yato no kami could enter the household at Lady Aiko’s invitation.”

“And the north ward?” Hiromasa asked, though he thought he knew the answer.

Seimei lifted one shoulder. “The north hall of an estate belongs to the principal wife. Lady Aiko, possessed by the serpent gods, needed a way to pass unhindered through her own home. The power of the kami would see to it that she was able to move around the rest of the compound at will.”

“You suspected her last night,” Hiromasa realised, cursing himself for his slow wits. “The questions you were asking her…”

“I wanted to ascertain her motive.” Seimei offered him a crooked smile. “It is no small thing to invite the possession of a god.”

Hiromasa dropped his gaze, remembering Seimei dancing as Ame no Uzume. Remembering, too, the two innocents, Himiko and Susa, who had been taken by the gods after they had used the two young people in a cosmic battle.

His anger ebbed away. Not his grief; he would hold onto that until he could be alone and mourn in private. But instead of raging against Aiko’s decision and the loss of Kanesuke and Naritoki, sadness overwhelmed him. He understood, and could even forgive; his heart filled with sympathy for Aiko.

As the darkness of his emotions receded, Hiromasa realised something else. Something that brought gladness and light.

“So Masako was innocent after all,” he said, not bothering to hide his relief. “Takamune was right. She’s a sweet, pretty village girl whose only crime was to fall in love with her master’s son. Oh, I don’t doubt she cared for Kanesuke—my cousin could be very charming!—but Takamune is a handsome lad and of her own age. I hope he finds her soon and brings her back safely. I hate to think of the poor girl frightened and alone, especially in her condition. Just think how glad she’ll be when she spies Takamune riding towards her on his—on _my_ —horse!”

“Mm.” Seimei drank his wine, brooding again.

“I pray that what you say comes to pass,” Genzo said. “Though the circumstances are unusual, and the girl not from a noble family, there is no denying the depth of feeling on the part of young Takamune. It would be good, after all this sadness, to anticipate a happier event.”

“I am a fool!” Seimei sat bolt upright. “Come, Hiromasa—we must go.”

“Go?” Hiromasa echoed, starting to rise. “Go where?”

Seimei stood, his white silks falling about him, a grim look on his face. “To prevent another tragedy.”

*

They rode alongside the shore of the lake in a tearing hurry, Seimei on his horse and Hiromasa on a mount borrowed from the Sakamoto stables. Even though Hiromasa’s horse was more rested, he was hard pressed to keep up with his friend. He dug in his heels and leaned forward, the animal’s mane brushing his face like smoke.

The miles flashed past in a jolting tableau of dark reeds and shimmering blue water. Cormorants flew up, disturbed from their feeding, and mandarin ducks quacked in panic. The smell of rotting vegetation and warm brine battled with the scent of his horse’s exertion and the panic of his own sweat.

He drew level with Seimei and cautiously lifted himself into a more upright position, balancing his seat as the horses galloped along the dusty, rutted track. “Seimei, won’t you talk to me? What’s going on?”

Seimei spared him a look, intense and determined. “Lady Aiko was right. Even when she’d given herself over to the yato no kami, enough of her true self remained to act on instinct. She remembered you, treated you with affection and spoke of her time in the capital with fondness. Equally, her maternal instinct wasn’t lost when the serpent gods took her. Her fear for her son was very real—and based on a genuine threat to Takamune’s safety.”

Horror burst through Hiromasa. “You mean—”

Seimei’s jaw set, and he growled out the words: “Masako is a nure-onna. Yes.”

Gripped by desperation, Hiromasa leaned over his horse’s neck again, urging the animal on.

The track hugged the edge of the lake. He remembered this place—he’d seen the woman swimming, and she’d waved to him. Had that been Masako? She’d been too far away for him to tell, but he couldn’t discount the possibility. Nausea churned in his stomach. He levered himself up, scanning along the shoreline, scarcely daring to look directly at the water. Little waves lapped through the reed beds. Up ahead was a muddy sort of beach. Earlier, he’d seen wading birds picking over the strand, but now he saw…

He pointed, finger shaking. “There!”

Seimei pulled his mount around and set off in the direction indicated. Hiromasa followed, his limbs as watery as the lake. His pulse beat in his throat, almost choking him. He couldn’t take his gaze from the object splayed on the shore, half-hidden by the wavering reeds.

The figure of a man dressed in russet and black, the colours Takamune had been wearing when he’d dashed away from the house. His cloak covered his head, and one pale hand was thrown out as if to ward off an attack. His boot-shod feet lay in the lake, and his hakama were soaked, the russet silk darkened to the colour of dried blood.

Over him crouched the nure-onna. A serpent as big as a man, grey and blue scales glistening with water droplets. Its head was human, wearing the pretty features of Masako. But there was nothing innocent or lovely about her now; she was coiled above Takamune’s body, feeding on him.

Seimei took both hands from the reins and snapped out a spell. A bolt of light shot from his palms and blasted Masako backwards. With a startled shriek she crumpled, rolling up into a snakey ball. She hit the water and skimmed across the lake before sinking like a stone.

“Quickly!” yelled Seimei.

Hiromasa was ahead of him. Leaping from the saddle, he ran down the bank towards Takamune. Mud sucked at his boots; reeds tangled in his clothes. He fought his way through, frantic, breaths sharp. “Cousin! Cousin Takamune!”

A spray of spume, and Masako rose from the water as a young woman, her gown sodden and diaphanous. Her shapely figure was revealed, rounded breasts and curving thighs, a taut, flat belly. She tossed her long, black hair over her shoulder and threw a swaddled bundle into the air.

The bundle let out a thin, wailing cry. Hiromasa stared up at it in confusion. A baby. It was a baby!

He swerved around his fallen cousin, arms lifted to catch the helpless infant.

“No!” Seimei’s voice was like a lash. “Hiromasa, _no_!”

Hiromasa jerked back his arms. The baby fell, screaming now. It landed with a thud on the marshy ground. The cries ceased. Gingerly, he stepped forward. Drawing his sword, he used the point to ease aside the swaddling cloth.

It wasn’t a baby. It was a rock.

Masako screeched, transforming back into her serpentine form. Tail lashing, she advanced, her furious gaze torn between her prey and the threat offered by himself and Seimei. She hissed, showing a long, forked tongue and razor-sharp fangs, made a few feints towards them, then wrapped her coils around Takamune’s ankle and started to drag him into the water.

Hiromasa sprang forward, sword raised, and slashed at her scaly skin. Viscous white liquid oozed from the cuts. Masako writhed and screamed, an unearthly sound. Her jaw unhinged, opening wide. Her breath stank of wet mud and despair. She swayed back and forth, taunting him, her fangs glittering, and then she lunged.

He scrambled back, keeping her at bay with sweeps of the sword. Hissing, she ducked and wove about him, forked tongue flickering. Her tail lashed again, catching at his cloak and spinning him about. Hiromasa dragged it from her grasp and faced her, realising with a sudden jolt that she was trying to turn him so his back was to the lake. It was clear that she planned to drive him into the water.

Teeth gritted, he planted his feet firmly into the sucking mud. He was going nowhere.

“Hiromasa.” Seimei scrabbled to his side, uncharacteristically awkward in the slippery, boggy ground. He was breathing hard, his expression intent. Taking up a position behind Hiromasa, Seimei laid one hand on his back. The other hand covered Hiromasa’s grip on the hilt of the sword.

“Now,” Seimei rasped, and chanted, quick and angry. Power surged through their joined hands, sparked along the blade. As one they lunged forward and struck Masako.

The force of it threw her into the reeds. Screaming, her skin and scales peeling, her face melting, she thrashed about in the reed bed then hurled herself into the lake. A hiss slithered across the water. A violent stream of bubbles rose to the surface, and Hiromasa fancied he could see her serpentine body twisting and turning as she sank into the depths.

Long moments later, the surface cleared. The lake was quiet. A duck called from deep within the reeds.

Hiromasa sighed, sheathing his sword. Then his eyes widened and he burst out, “Takamune!”

Stumbling again, he half ran, half crawled over to his cousin. Seimei scrambled after him, black mud spattering the pristine white of his hunting costume. Careless of his fine silks, Hiromasa knelt in the brackish marsh, cold creeping over his knees and drenching his skirts. He bent down, tugging the cloak from Takamune’s face, smoothing his cousin’s hair, searching his throat for a pulse.

Hiromasa sat back, lifted his gaze to Seimei. “He’s alive.”

“Good.” Seimei dropped to his haunches at Takamune’s side and laid a muddy hand over his forehead. He smiled, faint and rueful. “He will be well, in time.”

At that, Takamune stirred. His eyes opened, blank at first as he stared at the sky, then he focused, first on Hiromasa, then Seimei. He frowned, fixing on Hiromasa again.

“Cousin Hiromasa.” His expression cleared; his smile was that of a young boy invited to play kick-ball. “What are you doing here?”

*

Hiromasa fed the last paper into the brazier. It curled, scorching golden then charring to black as the embers caught and flared up into a flame. A plume of smoke, faintly scented with aloes, rose in a thin, dark twist. He watched it burn.

That was the last of the contracts drawn up between Sakamoto no Kanesuke and the people of various communities around the province. No proof remained of his cousin’s underhand dealings with the villages he was by duty meant to protect.

First into the fire had been the contract with Namegata. As it had burned, Hiromasa thought he’d heard a slow, sibilant hiss of satisfaction, but when he’d looked around his cousin’s study, he hadn’t seen even a glimpse of a snake’s tail.

Perhaps it had been a figment of his imagination.

He’d written to the headmen of the communities, explaining that the contracts were null and void. Any payment received, he added, was to be considered a gift from the now-deceased governor. No one from the capital would be investigating further; the matter was closed.

To the letter addressed to the headman of Namegata, he’d added a postscript, promising a bolt of silk to the shrine of the yato no kami in return for offerings made in memory of Naritoki, Aiko, and Kanesuke.

Hiromasa waited until the flame died down, then he withdrew from the study and made his way through the house until he reached the walkway to the guest quarters. As he passed the room where Takamune slept, he nodded acknowledgement to Otomi, who sat in front of the bamboo blinds keeping the young man in cool shade. Her face puffy with grief, the maidservant returned his greeting.

Seimei had promised that Takamune would soon recover from his ordeal. In time, when he was stronger and able to deal with the truth, he would remember the events of the last few days; but for now it was simpler to let him believe that his brother and parents had all succumbed to a pestilence and that he was the only survivor.

Stepping onto the veranda overlooking the little garden, Hiromasa exhaled a sigh. “Well, Seimei. The letters are done, the contracts burned, and arrangements have been made for the funerals of Kanesuke and Aiko.”

“You are very efficient.” A splash; Seimei poured some wine into green-glazed cups. “Come, Hiromasa, sit.”

His companion was wearing fresh clothes; dark blue hakama and an orange under-robe, his hunting costume as dazzling white as a cloud. Hiromasa brushed at the dried mud-stains on his travel-crumpled garments and sank down onto a mat, reaching gratefully for the cup Seimei offered him.

“I still need to write to Their Excellencies of the Left and the Right, informing them of what happened here,” goodness knows how he was going to word that particular missive, “telling them that I have left things in good order, and requesting the immediate appointment of a new governor.” Hiromasa rubbed at his forehead. “No doubt it will take a long time.”

One of last year’s oak leaves, a vibrant red, skittered across the floor. Seimei picked it up, twirling it by its stem. “It would be simplicity itself to send the message via shikigami. That should hurry things along.”

“Thank you.” Hiromasa took a long drink from his cup, the taste sweet and refreshing on his tongue. He leaned back, resting his head against a pillar, and closed his eyes. There were still so many things to do before they left Fuchu. Sadness pierced him. The loss of his cousin, Aiko, and Naritoki—the boy he hadn’t had chance to meet—threatened to overwhelm him. A loss that could have been avoided, if only Kanesuke hadn’t grown greedy.

He opened his eyes again and met Seimei’s calm gaze.

Pulling himself together, Hiromasa looked at the pine trees. “I must make arrangements to move Takamune when he’s strong enough. Probably he won’t wish to live in the capital until he’s recuperated completely. I think it would be best for him to go to his father’s estate at Suma. Otomi will go with him, I’m sure, and perhaps Jubei. Also, I need to pension off those servants here who wish to leave, and make arrangements for staff to stay on in readiness for the new governor…”

He let his words tail off, then huffed in bitter amusement. “So much for a pleasant time in congenial surroundings!”

“Mm.” Seimei took a sip of wine. “Despite your best efforts, Hiromasa, you are not at all superficial. You did not come here simply for a good time, you came because the Sakamotos are, however distant the connection, your family. Takamune needed you. Lady Aiko needed you. And you came.”

Hiromasa shook his head sadly. “But it’s all so horrible, Seimei. I couldn’t save Kanesuke, or Aiko.”

“Their fates were already sealed. Nothing you could have done would have changed their destinies.” Seimei leaned towards him, silk hushing. “It was for Takamune that you came here, and you saved him.”

“We,” Hiromasa corrected. “We came here. We saved him.”

Seimei studied him for a moment, a small smile tilting the corners of his mouth. “You are certain of me, aren’t you?”

Hiromasa gave a shaky laugh. “Of you, no. Of my ability to convince you… Yes.”

“Then, my dear Hiromasa,” Seimei lifted his cup, “let us drink to that.”


End file.
